


Honor

by MeltedFlames



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x06, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Season/Series 08, These fools really tried to act like they didn't say goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 11:24:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18939955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltedFlames/pseuds/MeltedFlames
Summary: Arya and Gendry's final moments together before she sails west.





	Honor

**Honor**

**\--**

**Gendry**

  
  
The Unsullied marched out of the dragon pit with the same precision they had displayed on their journey from White Harbor a few months before, their steps synchronized to sound almost as if one. Gendry found their unity fascinating, if not a bit unnerving.  
  
This whole meeting had seemed ludicrous at first. When the raven’s scroll arrived at his newly acquired home of Storm's End, he figured Davos had invited him as an opportunity to learn politics through practice. He begrudgingly agreed and rode north to King’s Landing, stopping along the way to meet some of the more prominent families of his new territory. They had arrived the evening before the trial was to take place and immediately saw to his frustratingly limited duties. That night, they supped with old men eager to discuss tax codes and fish rates; Gendry wished they’d eat with warriors and smallfolk instead.  
  
Now they were gathered in this strange place - Davos explained it once housed dragons, though Gendry couldn’t figure out how they ever could have fit - and somehow they now collectively had the power to determine the course of two lives.  
  
The group had made history this day, he was sure of it. Deciding a crippled boy from the  
North would be king, some even suggesting they represent the views of commoners - who knew lords could pause their arrogance long enough for this?  
  
To his right, Ser Davos stood and shook out an aching leg. The lord to his left brought a hand to his beard and arose from his polished wooden seat. One-by-one, the other lords and ladies stood and made their way out of the gravel stadium. Gendry realized he should do the same and stood awkwardly quickly.  
  
Lordship was filled with odd protocol such as this - how exactly was he supposed to know when he should stand? Was it disrespectful to rise before a more prominent lord had done so?  
  
Sighing lightly, he rolled his shoulders back as much as his tight leather overcoat allowed. He was still quite sore from the journey and longed for a hot bath. _Not even two months as a lord and already used to baths_ , he thought in ridicule of how quickly he had grown accustomed to luxury.  His eyes found Arya’s accidentally and he lowered them back to the wooden slats between them. This was the fourth time they had made eye contact; he wished one of them would nod or smile, at least, but found his body refused to cooperate.  
  
Arya turned to her siblings and said something before watching as Sansa wheeled Bran out of the pit.  
  
“Lord Gendry, I’m going to ensure our meetings are in place for tomorrow. I trust I’ll see you at dinner?” There was a tone of encouragement in Davos’ voice, as if he knew what Gendry was thinking.  
  
Gendry nodded in agreement and thanked him.  
  
He watched them file out until finally Arya’s grey eyes flashed to his once more before she too turned and walked off the platform. Two lords Gendry couldn’t name stood between them, but he walked briskly past them without considering their reaction. He would be damned if any random highborns were getting between him and Arya Stark.  
  
He had tried his hardest to not make a fool of either of them by singling her out when he arrived, tried to stop himself from staring at her and the new addition to the scar on her forehead. He would be in King’s Landing for a few days, likely a week at the very least - they would have time to speak, he reminded himself.  
  
Still, he hadn’t been able to stop from glancing over at her every few minutes. Thrice she had been doing the same when he turned his head towards her. The first occurrence had been the least awkward, a reassuring but sad smile whispered across her face before she returned her attention to Tyrion. The second seemed the strangest - he had been horrified yet excited to think she was staring at his manhood through his pants, only to realize she was scrutinizing the sword he now wore upon his hip. Her eyes had darted quickly from his when she realized he had seen her, a smirk fighting its way onto her countenance. The third instance happened so fast that he would have thought he had imagined it had she not furrowed her brow in an attempt to look as though she was thinking about something important.  
  
You didn’t catch someone staring at you thrice because they wanted nothing to do with you.  
  
“Arya,” he called out as he stepped off the platform.  
  
She paused and pivoted towards him, her face softening for a moment before regaining its usual indifference.  
  
“So this is how it’s going to be now?” She pursed her lips but did not respond. “We’re just going to ignore each other and act like strangers?”  
  
Arya sighed as she turned to face him fully.

“Would you have preferred I stop the entire meeting to greet you individually?” Her voice was tired, as if she hadn’t been sleeping. Gendry felt a wave of concern settle into his chest.  
  
“You’ll need to take care to list my titles properly.” His words were softer now, and he felt some joy at the sight of the corners of her mouth raising ever-so-slightly at his joke.  
  
“You do look like a proper lord.”  
  
Gendry raised his brows, desperately hoping to ignore the warmth he felt from her kind words.  
  
“Definitely don’t feel like one.” It was true. The Stormlands had been surprisingly receptive to his lordship - his appearance was sufficient for them to accept his lineage, and word of the destruction of King’s Landing arrived just before he did. The noble houses were not going to risk the fury of a dragon queen to refute a Baratheon bastard with a good heart.  
  
Arya didn’t reply as she scanned his face and attire once more, a soft smile resting upon her face and eyes filled with something he couldn’t quite recognize.  
  
The final remaining lords walked around them and suddenly it was just the two of them again. The dragon pit felt the size of a kingdom of its own, its air as heavy as the silence between them. Gendry could only bear that silence for so long.  
  
“Will you be staying here, then? Bran will be the safest king in history with you as his kingsguard.” His words came out rushed and shoved together; he tried to suppress the hope he could feel trying to take root at the thought of her only a week’s ride away.  
  
Arya shook her head lightly.  
  
“Or Sansa. The Queen in the North - I imagine you’re pleased by that. I’m sure no one will dare oppose the sister of the woman who slayed the Night King.” He still felt awkward as he spoke, like his words were somehow supposed to mend whatever seemed to be wrong with the small woman avoiding his gaze.  
  
“Not Winterfell,” her eyes finally met his. “I’m leaving.” _Leaving?_  
  
“Off to the Iron Islands to put an end to Yara Greyjoy’s disrespect of Jon?” Arya’s quick threat had impressed and amused him, but his reference didn’t seem to elicit any such feelings in her now.  
  
“Leaving Westeros.” Her voice was the softest he had ever heard it.  
  
“Where will you go? Braavos, to meet that friend you freed who gave you that coin?” Gendry could barely remember the man, but he recalled that she had been so intent on finding him again.  
  
“I’m going West.” She was staring off at the side of the limestone archway now.  
  
“West,” He repeated her final word as he processed it, “What’s west?” Gendry felt like a fucking fool asking all of these questions.  
  
“No one knows.”  
  
Gendry had heard the tales before, the countless experienced sailors who had tried to find out what existed past the Sunset Sea. All had died. One’s ship had made it to Essos years later, if he recalled correctly, but she had never been heard from again, either.  
  
The conflict that had settled in his gut upon asking her plans morphed into an anger more intense than any he had felt in ages. Arya Stark, resigning herself to death at sea? _What a bloody waste._ He clenched his fists and forced his jaw to relax enough to speak.  
  
“Have you gone completely mad?” His voice was harsher than he had expected, but he made no attempt to soften it. “Have you even sailed a day in your life?”  
  
Arya turned to face him and met his glare with one just as dangerous. She took two steps towards him and he tried to ignore the excitement brewing as she approached.  
  
“It’s none of your business, but I’ve contracted a crew for the journey.”  
  
“A crew who would willingly sail west and drown? Either their minds are as lost as yours or they’ve robbed you. I’d bet all the gold in Braavos that you’ll show up to an empty dock.” His words were bitter, though true in essence. He knew men well enough - none would volunteer to sail across the sea and die for the whims of some northern lady.  
  
Arya did not respond, but raised a thick brow to question his assumption.  
  
“Have you told them yet?”  
  
“Told who?” Her voice came out fast and scornful; Gendry's heart beat a little faster upon the realization that she was starting to sound nearly as angry as he did.  
  
“Your family,” he responded just as quickly as she had asked. “Have you told Sansa and Bran that you’re off to chase some noble death at sea? Will you even tell Jon, or will you just leave in the night without a word?” The last part was unnecessary. Still, he wouldn’t wish upon anyone the way her unannounced departure from Winterfell the night after his proposal had dug into his heart.  
  
Arya broke her eyes away from his and inhaled a light breath; exhaustion and indifference washed down upon her face. She blinked twice before responding, “That isn’t your concern.”  
  
Gendry almost felt bad for her; she had spent so much of their early time together talking about her “pack” and how she’d find them. Now she was going to force herself to leave the few who had cheated death as soon as she’d gotten back to them. “And I suppose you won’t have any need for a smith aboard your ship.” He was ashamed at how softly his words rang out. Where was the fury he had struggled to hold back just breaths before?  
  
“No. But Storm’s End certainly needs their lord.”  
  
_No._ It was truly that simple, wasn’t it? She didn’t need him, she didn’t want him. He was a fool for deluding himself into ever thinking otherwise. Arya had already rejected his proposal once - how many times did he need to touch a flame before realizing it would burn?  
  
“‘Course,” the anger was seeping out of him again. “I wasn’t enough as a smith and I’m not enough as a lord.”  
  
“You’re being melodramatic.”  
  
He sneered at her assessment, feeling every bit as insecure as he had when he’d seen highborn lads try to impress her on the Kingsroad.  
  
“And you’re being selfish!” He was shouting now. “You’re going to waste your family fortune on a ship to take you to the edge of the Sunset Sea and then what? Starve? Be eaten by your own men when you run out of food? Lose to a storm and become food for the creatures of the sea? All so you can trick yourself into thinking you’re too special and brave to be around everyone else.”  
  
His words evoked nothing in Arya. The tiny movements he could normally read - the quiver of her left brow, the angle at which she positioned her shoulders, whether she let her lips open or kept them shut - they were all blank. Her refusal to care only infuriated him further.  
  
“Well, if by some miracle or curse you do survive, don’t come looking to feel alive again in Storm’s End.”  
  
Gendry didn’t allow himself to look back at her as he huffed off out of that dreadful pit.  
  
He rounded the stone walkway and moved as quickly as he could. Clouds of amber dust rose up with each stomp. He found Ser Davos seated on a bench by the stables, a worn book open between his gloved hands.  
   
“I’m going back early,” Gendry grunted out as he approached the older man. If he left tonight and rode fast, he could make it back before week’s end.  
  
“Like hell you are,” Davos responded.  
  
“You know these men anyways, what use is a smith from Flea Bottom?”  
  
 “I’ve just finished laying the work to ensure Gendry of House Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, Armorer of the Living against the Dead, is respected and secure in his position. You want to throw that away? I don’t think so. You’re staying here.” Gendry felt his ears burn at the shame of titles he didn’t deserve.  
  
He ducked into the stable and found his horse, a white steed with grey patches along his chest and rump. The horse neighed softly as he approached and gently raised a hand to stroke his muzzle. _He needs to rest_ , he rationalized. Horses needing sleep made more sense to him than any lordly meetings ever could.  
  
“We’ll be seated with houses Dondarrion and Penrose tonight at dinner. Why don’t you go see if they need a hand in the forges until then?” Davos knew him well.  
  
Gendry nodded, “Thanks,” he mumbled as he lowered his torso under a beam and passed the Onion Knight beneath a large ash tree to the north of the stable walls.  
  
“Lad?” Davos called to him as he walked. Gendry stopped and turned to face him, “Make sure you wash up before you find us. Soot on your face once might make you a hard worker, but twice makes you a slob.”  
  
He smiled and nodded before continuing towards the sound of hammers singing against steel.

  
  
\- -

  
**Arya**

 

  
  
Even winter in King’s Landing was too warm. The night air brought her some comfort, but each touch of wind carried the lingering scent of death and ash; she wished it would carry the smell of sea or snow or steel - anything but fire and blood.  
  
Arya was crouched upon the roof somewhere above the east wing of the armory. She had managed to climb up here just in time to watch the sun finish its descent into the hills a few hours earlier, and now she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave.  
  
Today had been nearly unbearable - she had said goodbye to Jon before a ship took him to White Harbor, seen her closest and most beloved sibling for the last time. Knowing they would never be together again left a burning hole in her chest that refused to go away. This was her choice, and that made it infinitely worse.  
  
She had trained in the yard with Needle until her legs cramped; the pain in her side stopped her breathing and her grip failed, but the ache remained. Stumbling through the mostly-abandoned armory and up the stairs, Arya hadn’t been entirely sure where she was going. She passed piles of splintered training swords and broken chunks of mail, each bringing with it a worse memory. Syrio Forel, Beric Dondarrion’s sacrifice, her father. When her blistered feet could take her no further, she climbed onto the window ledge and managed to pry herself up onto the roof, hooking her feet onto the exposed bricks in fear of winding up like Bran.  
  
Syrio’s memory sharp in her mind, she aimlessly practiced her balance upon the outer edges of the building until her legs cramped and she had one too many visions of herself splattered upon the cobblestones below.  
  
None of it had helped her miss Jon any less.  
  
The city was quieter than she expected, likely because of the massive drop in population after the Dragon Queen’s attack.  
  
A squirrel scurried off the roof and leapt to the nearest tree. Clamoring sounded behind it as someone climbed onto the roof quite ungracefully. Arya unsheathed Needle and spun to face the oncoming figure.  
  
“Going to skewer me already?” _Gendry_.  
  
“I might.” She left her arm poised for show, but knew he would remain unperforated for now.  
  
Arya wasn’t sure how she felt about him approaching her here; she had assumed the heated interaction in the dragon pit would be their last. His words were harsh, but she was fully aware that people often lashed out to mask their pain. Gendry had expected her to come back to him, she was sure of it. He had convinced himself that she would finish her list, hang up her weapons, and prance back to him to be the Lady of Storm’s End. Anger would be easier than rejection, especially for a man who had just been handed one of the great regions of the Seven Kingdoms.  
  
“How did you find me?” She asked when she was sick of waiting for him to stop looking like a fool.  
  
“Easily. You’re not as mysterious as you think.”  
  
Arya rolled her eyes and sat back down to wedge herself within a crenel. Gendry approached her slowly, as if he really thought she might leap up and slit his throat.  
  
“Did you need something?” She hadn’t intended to sound so resentful, but it was probably for the best.  
  
“Didn’t see you at dinner,” Gendry answered as he lowered himself to lean against the broad side of one of the merlons she was propped between.  
  
“Didn’t go.” He didn’t need to know she had skipped the meal to fight the air until her sweat mingled with the tears that hadn’t left her eyes since bidding Jon farewell.  
  
Gendry pulled a small bag across his body. _No wonder he was so loud getting onto the roof_ , Arya realized. He removed a flagon of ale and a fabric bundle, which he tossed to her gently. She caught it easily and unwrapped it to reveal half a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a few slabs of cured meat.  
  
“Can’t kill people or sail the seas if you starve,” he mumbled before unsealing the ale and taking a large gulp.  
  
She met his blue eyes tentatively, scanning them for the emotions he had thrown at her just the day before. He smiled in return for just a moment, then looked away sheepishly when he realized her gaze was more interrogative than grateful.  
  
Satisfied, she tore a piece of the loaf and ripped the meat apart sloppily, smashing it with the cheese onto the bread and shoving the mess into her mouth. She offered Gendry the remainder, but he shook his head and stuck out a hand to stop her. The bread was fresh and the meat was deliciously salted. Training had made her hungrier than she realized.  
  
“Well,” her voice had taken back the bossy tone she used only with him. Arya willed it to flatten, “You’ve completed your mission. No use in perching up here all night.” She twisted to face him so he might see she was serious.  
  
His face looked beaten for a moment but he did not budge. He picked up the ale and passed it to her without drinking again. She took it and drank greedily, grateful for the feeling of liquid coating her burning throat.  
  
“Gendry,” she started. He wasn’t supposed to be up here with her - he wasn’t supposed to be kind and bring her food and ale or look so comely in his new clothing.  
  
He didn’t let her finish her thought.  
  
“I couldn’t just let things finish the way they were.”  
  
She swallowed another swig of ale and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before handing him back the container. They sat there in silence, occasionally passing back the drink. Her right leg dangled over the edge of the building and sent a rhythmic swoosh into the night. They spent the next hour like that: _swoosh_ , drink, breathe, _swoosh_ , swallow, breathe, _swoosh_ , pass, glance, _swoosh_ , breathe, pass, _swoosh_ , drink, breathe, _swoosh_ ….  
  
Arya broke the pattern first.  
  
“I told them,” she said quietly.  
  
“And?”  
  
She shrugged - her siblings had taken the news well. Bran had been, well, Bran - or at least Bran as he was today and not as he was when she left home for the first time. Sansa had teared up for a moment before sniffling and nodding quietly; she knew her sister too well to try to change her mind. Jon had seemed almost proud, wiping away her tears and pulling her in for a hug that stopped the world. Just replaying the events in her mind singed the edges of the pain that wouldn’t leave her heart. Arya blinked back tears as she reached for the ale even though their pattern indicated it was time for a breath rather than a drink.  
  
“You don’t have to leave them,” Gendry said softly. “You don’t have to leave everyone you love.”  
  
Arya closed her eyes and rested her head against the stone. He was making this much harder than it needed to be.  
  
“It’s better this way,” she finally responded, her eyes still shut.  
  
“I’m done trying to stop you,” _Finally…_ “but you should know this isn’t noble.  
  
Noble. What was noble, anyways? The word always brought images of her father to mind, a man plagued by duty and honor. Nobility had cost Ned Stark his head; it had cost Robb his wife and kingdom; it had cost the Starks their entire family. Still, there was something appealing about the notion, something that drew her in like a fish to a gleaming hook.  
  
She heard Gendry sip from the container again.  
  
“I’m just trying to say that a lot of us are better with you here.”  
  
She blinked open her eyes but kept them focused in front of her. He was wrong, she knew that much for certain.  
  
“No you aren’t.”  
  
“Now who’s being melodramatic?” He was almost as affected by the ale as she was, Arya realized; she could hear his stupid grin as he spun her words back on her even without looking at him.  
  
“I’m being serious.” Her voice rose in pitch with her defensiveness but she didn’t care enough to fix it.  
  
“You saved the entire realm just four moonturns ago but now you think everyone is better off without you?” Arya willed herself not to turn to face him. She had no desire to speak with him on this. He could go ride off to Storm’s End and talk to the crashing waves if he wanted, surely they would be more willing to converse.  
  
Someone dropped something made of glass in the courtyard below and Arya’s hand flew to Needle. The horrors of Daenerys’ burning of the city flashed before her eyes - children and mothers burnt together, gutted men and bloodied women, crashes of stone and metal… but this was just a drunken mistake. Two men laughed and swore and went on with their night.  
  
She studied her surroundings until she was certain she could loosen her grip. This was why she had to leave - she couldn’t be ready to slit the throat of everyone who startled her, especially now that more things startled her than ever had before.  
  
Arya turned to look at Gendry for a moment - had he seen her lapse in judgement?  
  
His neck was twisted as he eyed her worriedly. Mercifully, he stayed quiet.  
  
They sat in silence again, though this time no one reached for the ale resting between them. Arya imagined they must look quite dramatic, silently looking to the horizon with their backs perpendicular against the same merlon; she might have laughed if she had the energy.  
  
“I could go with you, you know,” Gendry broke the silence after a while, “Give Davos Storm’s End and sail off with you to find what’s West.”  
  
His offer dug at the same hole left by Jon’s farewell earlier that day.  
  
“No,” Arya breathed as she shook her head. “You deserve this.” She felt his head spin towards her and knew he had interpreted her words more harshly than they had been intended, “you deserve to be a lord. You deserve to be celebrated and loved by your people.”  
  
“I told you back in Winterfell, none of it means anything without you.” This was worse than his anger. She swallowed hard and suddenly wished she could guzzle the ale to avoid answering him.  
  
“Of course it does. You’re the Lord of the Stormlands now. One of the youngest lords paramount in the six kingdoms, after Robin Arryn, I suppose.”  
  
“I don’t want it without you. These meetings Davos has been dragging me to have been more boring than a forge or a ship could ever be.” Her heart skipped momentarily; she breathed deeply and tried to steady it. More of her than she’d like to admit wanted to accept his offer - to welcome him aboard her ship, fall asleep beside him every night, and have him with her on every adventure. But that would be selfish. With her he’d be bound to a life of nothingness, of sleepless nights kept awake by her terrors and an inability to stay in one place without the memories of those she’d killed following her. He deserved better; he deserved happiness.

“I can’t let you do that. You’re going to be a wonderful lord with a perfect lady and a happy region.”  
  
“Not without you.”  
  
She turned her body to face him. “Yes without me,” she urged.

“Arya,” there was a sense of warning in his voice, like he was about to say something they’d both regret, “I’m not just being dramatic. It doesn’t matter without you. I don’t want some lady in silk dresses, I don’t want a castle, I don’t want to have people tending to my every need - I just want you. I love you.” He looked as though he might say more but stopped himself.  
  
“No you don’t,” The moon bathed his face in blue light and highlighted the heartbreaking fall of his features as she spoke. “You love the idea of me - you love what you want me to be, not who I actually am.”  
  
“Then who are you?” She might as well have stabbed him when he first appeared. It would certainly have been less painful.  
  
Arya looked him over once more, surprised by the feeling of hot tears rising up at his question. She shut her eyes tightly - she wouldn’t cry in front of him.  
  
“You think I don’t know that you’ve killed people? We’ve all done it. We just finished a war, for fuck’s sake.”  
  
She kept her eyes closed but shook her head.  
  
_Not like me_ , she’d have replied if her voice weren’t fighting off a painful lump as she willed herself not to cry.  
  
Gendry whispered her name with concern and gently placed his hand over hers. Maybe she hadn’t been successful at masking her tears after all. She ought to just tell him, she reasoned; mayhap once he knew what she was capable of he’d let her go.  
  
Arya opened her eyes and angled her body towards him. She let his hand remain over hers and reveled in the warmth for a moment - she could excuse one selfish moment in a night of pushing away a man she wanted more than most other things in life.  
  
“I killed a little girl, innocent and trusting.” She said, forcing herself to look him in the eye as she spoke.  
  
“No you didn’t,” Gods, was he even listening to her?  
  
“I did. She trusted me and I killed her.” She could still picture the girl’s twisted face as she smiled and accepted the poisoned drink.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“She was suffering. Her father couldn’t bear it anymore and asked for the Many-Faced-God’s help.” Why hadn’t she just said “because they told me to” and left it at that?  
  
Gendry raised an eyebrow, wordlessly pointing out what she already knew.  
  
“I killed an entire house.” His face didn’t flinch.  
  
“I know. Everyone heard about the Freys,” His hand shifted upon hers and for a moment she thought he was going to finally let go. Instead he just twisted her wrist gently to allow his fingers the room to intertwine with hers. “Everyone also heard that the women and children miraculously survived the fate of the men.”  
  
That was true, she hadn’t killed the women or children. They were innocent and had likely suffered enough being a part of that dreadful family.  
  
“I fed a man his own children. Killed Lothar and Black Walder separately; chopped them to bits, hacked at their bones and butchered them like a swine. Then I cooked them into a pie and fed it to Walder Frey before I slit his throat.” It had felt poetic in the moment, feeding the man who had killed her family his own sons, just as the Rat Cook had back in the Nightfort in Old Nan’s story. Revenge was an addictive haze, it let you break bones and take lives as though they were nothing. Now, with revenge decidedly behind her, the memory revolted her.  
  
Gendry’s face faltered with that story. _Good_ , she thought, _run back to the Stormlands._  
  
He did not run. His hand stayed laced with hers as he considered her words.  
  
“Did you eat the pie?”  
  
“No.” She was disgusted at the question.  
  
“A taste for human flesh might have come in handy on your journeys at sea, you know.” Was he joking about this? Gods, he was a fool.  
  
“It’s not funny,” she insisted, pulling her hand from his.  
  
“So that’s it? You killed a terrible house in a slightly gruesome way but left their innocents alive? And you ended a sick child’s life? Seven Hells, any of these bastards have done worse,” he swung his arm out to gesture to the city beyond them.  
  
“I would have killed Cersei Lannister. I knew she was pregnant, but I still wanted to,” she had spent a lot of time imagining that one. “Would have done it, too, if Sandor hadn’t gotten me to leave the Red Keep.”  
  
His eyes flickered sadly across her face and she realized he didn’t know she had been in the midst of it all.  
  
“Not a soul in all of Flea Bottom that wouldn’t have done the same,” he finally answered.  
  
“Killed Meryn Trant, too. Made him suffer and enjoyed every second of it.” That might have been worse than the pie. She had stabbed and sliced and blinded sadistically; some part of her still felt joy at the memory.  
  
She could tell Gendry had no idea who she was talking about.  
  
“I’m sure you had your reasons.” Arya didn’t like this. He was going to rationalize and excuse everything she said. He didn’t know how she’d done it, he didn’t know the rush she felt as his blood sprayed onto her face. “Are you going to tell me you feel bad for killing the Night King, now? I ended a hundred thousand walking corpses, Gendry,” he said, imitating the flatness of her voice.  
  
She felt her brow furrow at his mockery. “Should have ended yours instead.” Why was she joking? He always did this to her, made her joke and tease like the world wasn’t the nightmare it truly was. He chuckled and she didn’t fight the warmth that spread from his smile, warmth that traveled to the hole digging in her heart and filled it in a little.  
  
He glanced at how close she was to the edge of the roof before cautiously approaching her. A calloused hand rose gently to her left cheek. “You think these things make people afraid of you?” he asked. “Maybe they should, but they don’t. Not for me. So you can slit throats and throw daggers - I like that. You protect your family; you protected me when you had no reason to; you protected Hot Pie and Lommy, too. That’s what wolves do - they kill to keep their pack safe.” She hated him for mentioning wolves, but she hated him more for being right. “Jon, Sansa, Bran, me - we all love you because you’re a wolf, not in spite of it.”  
  
Her gut burned with conflict, the hot liquid of Gendry’s assurances warming the icy hole of never seeing her family again. It overflowed when he slowly brought his lips to hers.  
  
She kissed him back, wishing her mouth might weave him a tapestry to explain her turmoil. Could a kiss convey that she yearned to be with him while staying firm that she had made up her mind about leaving?  
  
Their kissing was slow and cautious, as if they both thought the other might stop and run if they moved too fast.  
  
Arya placed her hand upon his face, mirroring his own, and used the other to pull him closer by gently pushing the back of his head towards her. He angled his face and kissed her more fully, slowly meeting her tongue with his. It would have been perfect, if she didn’t already know exactly how it would end.  
  
She mustered all of her self-control to drop her arms and force herself back away from him, nearly tilting off the roof to do so.  
  
“Gendry,” Arya was surprised to find her voice low and in her throat. “We shouldn’t. It’s not a good idea.” She slid back into the crenel she had been wedged into before, facing him now.  
  
His eyes cleared and he nodded.  
  
“In case it wasn’t obvious, I think it’s the best idea we’ve ever had,” he said with a smile as he sat back down on the broad side of the same merlon again. He picked up the ale and took a long drink before passing it back to her.

  
This was stupid. Arya knew exactly what she wanted to do - she wanted to keep kissing him on that roof, wanted to drag him to her room to fuck and be fucked. But such desires were selfish and unfair to Gendry. He’d be a willing partner, she knew he would, but it would only hurt him in the end. She settled for the ale instead, disappointed to realize they had already had more than half of it.  
  
Kissing him had unlocked things in her that ought to be ignored. She knew she had carnal desires the same as anyone else, but this was overwhelming. Just a few kisses made her flash back to their night on the grain sacks - the feeling of his hands and mouth touching places she had previously only enjoyed herself when alone in the dead of the night, the glorious feeling of him inside her, the - _Stop_ , Arya commanded herself. Still, it was difficult to ignore the tingling warmth spreading through her lower abdomen. She passed him the ale again and wrapped her arms around her knees to stop herself from reaching out and touching him.  
  
Gendry’s sapphire eyes kept meeting hers as she struggled not to look at him. She felt her face flush and tried to convince herself it was from the ale and not what she wanted to do.  
  
“You leave tomorrow?” He asked her. She tried to ignore the rough quality of his voice.  
  
“At first light in four days’ time,” she corrected.  He nodded as if he had learned the information long ago and only briefly forgotten.  
  
“So, three more nights?” He arched his brows in a way that told Arya drink had made him bold. She was helpless to stop the smirk she felt rising without her permission. “Why exactly is this a bad idea?” He knew. He knew she wanted nothing more than to lie with him for the rest of her time on this cursed continent.  
  
“It will make it harder,” she responded, surprised with the even quality of her voice.  
  
“So our options are to stare at one another for a few days before you sail off, or to spend three perfect days together before you do the same?”  
  
Arya sighed and hugged her legs closer to her torso. Part of her wanted desperately to give in, to cross the meter between them both and end this foolish game. She refused to listen to that part and instead chose to ignore him and turn her face up towards the moon; the light it cast was nearly blinding, beautiful and whole as it illuminated the night.  
  
Gendry passed her the ale again; she was beginning to like the lightness it brought to her head with each swallow. It was nearly empty as she handed it back to him, lingering as her fingers grazed his.  
  
She watched as he swallowed the liquid. She was transfixed. The sharpness of his cheekbones and the slight stubble upon his face and below his chin, the movement of the protuberance of his throat, it all made her stomach turn in the most sickeningly delightful way. He caught her staring again and grinned foolishly for a moment before handing her the mostly-empty flagon. His rough fingertips brushed hers and she was certain it was intentional.  
  
Arya drained the last of the ale and stood up quite quickly.  
  
“Where are you going?” Gendry asked her. He seemed just as unwilling to part as she felt.  
  
“We’re out of ale.” She could feel the start to a wicked smile pulling at her lips.  
  
He grabbed her wrist to stop her as she passed him. She could have easily stood steadily or pulled her arm away; instead she let herself tumble forward. It was a dangerous game this far above the ground, but Arya knew precisely where she’d land. She laughed heartily for a moment before looking at the man before her. His lids seemed heavy as he stared into her, both large hands resting where he had caught her at the small of her waist.  
  
She couldn’t help herself any longer.  
  
She pushed her face upon his and kissed him excitedly. He was less reserved as he returned the motion now, hungrily pushing her body against his own. It took mere seconds for her to swing her right knee out over his leg to straddle him as they kissed. His hands roamed her back, her neck, her hips - every touch made her feel a little more alive.  
  
Arya tried to graze his torso but the leathers were too tight. She found the ties below the base of his neck and undid them quickly, tugging at the sides of his jerkin until it was loose enough to pull over his head. Once free, she found herself more excited than ever as her hands explored every ripple of his muscular torso.  
  
Gendry’s lips traveled from her mouth to her neck, kissing and biting and sucking upon everything he could. She rolled her hips above his and ground against the excitement she could feel building beneath his clothing. He had already unlaced her leather doublet and worked now to push it from her shoulders. Once it was off, he slipped his warm hands beneath her smallclothes. For a moment, he enjoyed touching her skin and waist, but then stopped abruptly and looked at her quite seriously.

  
“You’re hurt,” he whispered in shock as he gently raised the fabric of her blue linen undershirt to see the bandages wrapped below her breasts and around her upper torso. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered, leaning his head back against the stone merlon to stop himself from kissing her mid-sentence.  
  
“It’s just a broken rib,” Arya assured him as she roughly pulled his face back to hers. Gendry looked skeptical and mildly disappointed - not because they had stopped, but because she brushed aside her injury so casually. “The maester said it’s nearly healed.” That was all he needed to hear; he kissed her slowly for a moment, then greedily tugged her shirt from over her head and lowered his face to her breasts. She grasped at his newly-grown hair as his tongue swirled gasp-inducing patterns along her chest.  
  
Arya began unlacing the ties of his fine leather pants, lifting herself slightly to allow him the room to rise from the ground and slide them and the thin underlying trousers past his knees in one motion. He kept a hand on the small of her back to keep as much of her pressed to him as he could.  
  
She smirked at the feeling of his hands finding the similar laces on her own thin leather bottoms, which he removed with the same urgency he had shown his own. His rough fingers found her crux and traced patterns she couldn’t make out until she felt she might faint with need. As amazing as his hands were, she needed more.  
  
Arya kissed him again, then ground against his hardened length, strengthening herself with each shortened breath. She ached with the need to feel him within her, not just to slip and grind over him.  
  
Gendry sensed her desire - or maybe he was just as lusty himself - and used his hand to bring himself in line with her entrance. She shifted upwards and then took him in, slowly lowering herself upon him with a gasp that swallowed the moans he whispered into her lips. She leveraged her weight by pressing against his shoulders and rolling her hips forward as she lowered herself back down. He rose against her, kissing her as he filled her more deeply and met her walls with each rough buck of their hips. When her tired legs started to give out, she wrapped them around him and rocked back and forth, letting him do the work of moving in and out.  
  
It felt better than she remembered - was it like this last time? Arya felt that warmth, the same warmth she sometimes felt in dreams of flesh and need, rise up  and take control. It didn’t take long for the heat to spiral out into a euphoric sensation that made her cry out against his shoulder. She breathed heavily as he kept moving within her; her hands found any part of his body she could reach, defined arms and broad shoulders, a strong chest, a back widened from years of smithing. Her left hand acted without direction, cupping his face and making him look at her. After avoiding his gaze since his arrival in King's Landing, she reveled in the way he looked at her now - the lids of his eyes were weighted by lust and she felt him slow down as he looked back at her. She inhaled sharply at a particularly deep thrust, and he broke their staring with a frantic kiss.  
  
He met his own end shortly after, grunting out words she couldn’t quite understand against her neck before embracing her again and panting softly. She gripped him back and let her fingers dance across his sweat-dampened back.  
  
Gendry regained his composure slowly, breathing a little deeper with each breath. He was still inside her, and she curiously pushed against him again. His head snapped up to look at her. She did it again, enjoying the power she felt in the moment, and raised her brow to make sure he knew. He closed his eyes and groaned, then placed both hands on her waist to peel her off of him. It was easy to forget Gendry’s strength, but the ease with which he moved her entire body reminded her that his gentleness was a choice.  
  
She wished she had a cloth to wipe the remainder of his seed that was about to escape her now that he had withdrawn, but there was none to be found. She pulled on her pants instead and knew she’d need to wash them. He did the same, then gently lead her to lean against him.  
  
Arya wondered how bizarre they must look, naked from the waist up, her with a large bandage wound around half her torso, love drunk on the roof of an armory. She didn’t care. This felt right.  
  
Gendry was staring at her again, she could feel the burn of his gaze upon her face. She slowly turned to see him looking as though he had just heard some joke she had missed.  
  
“What?” She asked, feeling almost defensive.  
  
“Do you think we’ll ever do this in an actual bed?” She understood the joke now - they had lain together on bags within the archery section of Winterfell’s armory, on an unused forge, and now on a roof, but never on a bed.  
  
“Lord for a month and you already require a featherbed?” She teased as she grabbed the wrist of the arm he had wrapped around her. He chuckled softly and rolled his eyes. “I’ve never cared for featherbeds,” she said aimlessly, “They’re too soft.”  
  
Gendry nodded in agreement.  
  
“Give me the ground any day.” She knew that wasn’t quite true, she had enjoyed her bed in Winterfell. It was stuffed with wool rather than feathers, and lined with furs.  
  
“Or some grain sacks?” Arya nodded mischievously and rolled her body to be able to kiss him fully.  
  
“I’m not sleeping up here,” Gendry told her when they separated. She smiled at him, realizing that the sorrowful hole that had burned at her all day was hardly a bruise now.  
  
She rose quickly and dressed in her clothing, half-heartedly lacing them just enough to stay on long enough to get to whichever room was closest. She had to lace Gendry’s fancy leather jerkin for him; she wasn’t sure how she felt about the fact he now had clothing so nice he required others to help him wear it.  
  
He pulled her to him for another kiss, this one gentler than the others, then put the empty flagon and wrapped food she had discarded back into his bag. Arya slid her way down into the window and laughed heartily at Gendry’s clumsy attempt to do the same.  
  
His room was closer, just a few minutes’ walk to the northeast. It was only as long as the door took to close before she was on him again, removing his clothing and pulling him onto his precious bed.  
  
They hardly slept that night; occasionally they drifted off in the comfort of one another’s arms, but one would always wake the other with a kiss or a well-positioned grind of the hips.

-

  
If they could have, Arya was sure they would have spent the remainder of her time in Westeros like this. But, Gendry had meetings and she had maps to study and a sister to say goodbye to.  
  
The next night, she spent dinner trying to catch his eye to make sure he knew she’d find him after they had finished their days. It was easy to distract him, fun to watch him fight off the lustful thoughts she could bring on with a mere flicker of her brow.  
  
Arya waited for him in his room, already naked and ready. He came in an hour after she had entered; a massive grin overtook his face when he saw her and he crossed the entire length of the room in three long strides, not bothering to lock his door before frantically grabbing at his own clothes.  
  
That night, she dreamt of crowds of wights cornering her in the hall; she could not escape. She finally burst through a a door to safety, only for it to crumble upon her in ash and flame. All around, people burned and screamed and bled. Arya reached for them, but they only clawed at her with vicious, undead rage. She couldn’t breathe - the ash was too much for her lungs and the dead were approaching again. She tried to slither through a hole in the rocks towards light and made it halfway there. The other side was worse. Burnt skeletons smoked in the ruins: Jon, Sansa, Bran, Gendry, Nymeria. She did not know how she knew it was them, but somehow the bones were as identifiable as their faces. She sobbed a terrible croak at the sight of them, then felt the dead coming for her again. The rocks around her shifted and she could not move. A tiny hand grabbed for her foot - she did not need to see her to know it was the little girl who had died with the wooden horse. The corpses began pulling at her, tearing at her skin and pulling her legs in opposite directions.  
  
She awoke with a gasp as Gendry stared at her in the mostly-dark room. He brushed the hair from her eyes and kissed her forehead gently, then pulled her close to him. Tears engulfed her eyes and she couldn’t keep from weeping. The terrors of her dream had filled her with a strange feeling as though she had really been there; her heart was beating too fast and she felt her body tremor as it had when she emerged from the canals of Braavos after being stabbed. Arya knew her mind was playing tricks on her, but could not stop the physical reactions.  
  
Gendry stroked her hair gently and whispered reassurances against her scalp. After far too long, her heart began to slow. Feelings slowly returned - his arm around her, the draft from the window, a soreness in her eyes.  
  
She wriggled her body up towards Gendry’s face and stared at him for a moment. They wouldn’t talk about this, but Arya at least hoped he’d understand. Surely he must have his own share of terrifying mind games enacted by a cruel brain. His rough hand moved from the back of her head to her right cheekbone and traced it softly.  
  
“I love you.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she had even processed them. She wanted to take them back, to tell him she hadn’t meant it that way and that she was just grateful he was there, but that seemed cruel.  
  
Did she love him? Arya hadn’t taken the time to think about it fully. She supposed she did - it didn’t matter anyway.  
  
Gendry’s eyes widened and softened with delighted surprise. “And I you,” he whispered.  
  
They kissed lazily for a few minutes until they finally felt sleep come for them again. Arya held his hand in hers as she drifted off to more pleasant dreams.

-  
  
They spent the third day the same way - taking care of their own responsibilities for as long as they could during the day (though they once snuck off to a nearby store room when they passed in a corridor).  
  
That night, they both skipped dinner to be together for as long as they could. Each time got better and better with every instance, each session building upon what they had learned previously.  
  
But even the joy of frequent sex could not buffer the weight of her final night. Their lovemaking had been slower and more emotional than the others; neither could drive the fact they may never see one another from their minds.  
  
They laid intertwined in his bed, his arms wrapped around her and her legs weaved through his; her face was pressed into his chest with only just enough room to breathe. He periodically squeezed her tighter to him and kissed the top of her head. Neither had said a single word since she had walked into his room two hours earlier. It was a strange feeling, knowing she would be sailing off to unknown lands in a few hours. _You might die_ , she reminded herself again. If she ever returned to Westeros, he would almost certainly be married - he would likely be a father to many beautiful black haired babes by then.  
  
Honor was shit. Leaving him behind so he could have that life was the honorable thing to do, but so much of her wanted to grab his face and tell him to come with her. He would, she had no doubts of that, and that was why she couldn’t ask. He had already offered twice, once even in the middle of fighting with her after not seeing her for months. Gendry was a good man and good men deserved good lives.  
  
Her throat ached like she might cry again. _Gods, when did I get so emotional?_ She chastised herself in her mind. She couldn’t let him see her like that, not after he had already seen her at her weakest after her terrifying dream the night before.  
  
“You know, we would spend every day like this if you came to Storm’s End.”  
  
Arya hated him for saying that. She stiffened in his arms and moved her head from the warm comfort of his chest to tilt it upwards enough to glare at him. _We wouldn’t_ , she reminded herself. “I’m not asking you again, don’t worry. I just want you to remember what you said no to,” there was mischief in his voice. “and what you’ll come back to when you’re done.”  
  
She separated herself from him and he reached towards her to stay touching. Sitting up slowly, she looked at him for a moment. He was naked - he had been for nearly all of their time together these past few days. His body was just as impressive as it had been the first time she’d seen it fully, even more so than it had been when they were young in Harrenhal. She drank him in, eyeing him from toe to head before she got up to pour them each a glass of wine.  
  
“I might not come back, you know that.” She handed him his goblet and he sat up against the headboard to drink it.  
  
“Might not means you might.”    
  
Arya rolled her eyes at his stubborn smirk. “It could be years,” he shrugged, “decades, even.”  
  
“I’ll wait.”  
  
She glared at him.  
  
“You will not.”  
  
Gendry took a long drink and met her eyes without looking away; he was being serious.  
  
“If I _do_ come back and learn that you’ve waited for me, I swear to the old gods and the new that I will slit your throat myself.”  
  
“I don’t doubt that.”  
  
She sat on the edge of the bed, intentionally just out of his reach. The wine was sour and tannic against her tongue.  
  
“I mean it. Don’t wait for me. Live your life as you deserve to. Find a wife, make a family.” He looked more miserable with each word.  
  
Gendry did not argue with her, he only drank more of the wine and closed the distance between them, moving her hair to kiss the side of her neck.  
  
She leaned back into him and tried to ignore the very real possibility that he would do this to his future wife. Arya supposed she would do this with another man some day, too, but that seemed a lifetime away. She had no desire for other men, no dreams of anyone taking Gendry’s place.  
  
They only slept long enough for him to recover enough for a third, fourth, and fifth round. Arya had never heard of anyone lying together that many times in one night, but she supposed they couldn’t be the first.

-  
  
Dawn arrived too soon, and the distance from his bed to her clothing felt farther than that between King’s Landing and Winterfell. Gendry rose while she dressed and rummaged in his bag for a moment before pulling out something long and metallic.  
  
“Davos said you’d need this,” he murmured as he placed it before her. It was a spyglass made of gold.  
  
“Davos knows I’m sailing West?” Arya asked. Gendry’s ears darkened as he nodded awkwardly, likely realizing he was making it obvious that he had talked about her with his advisor and friend.  
  
“Thank him for me,” she said with a smile before taking the instrument from him and tucking it into her belt.  
  
They walked in together to the docks, exchanging a few glances but no words. Each step brought dull shots of pain between her legs from their many unions the night before, but she ignored the discomfort; it had been worth today’s pain.  
  
“No questioning which is yours,” Gendry remarked when he saw her ship. It was quite massive, and featured a telltale direwolf figurehead.  
  
“The sails have them too,” she said gleefully.  
  
They stepped down the ramps to the planks leading directly to her vessel. Gendry grabbed her wrist. It was early enough that there were few others on the docks, though Arya wasn’t sure that would have mattered to them anyways. He pulled her close and kissed her just as deeply as he had in the dark these past few blissful nights. She returned his kiss and tried not to think of it as the last time.  
  
“Do you want to see the ship?” She asked. He stood awkwardly stiff and did not follow. “Gendry?”  
  
His blue eyes stared into her so intensely she instantly felt her own eyes begin to burn.  
  
“If I get on that ship, I’m not getting back off.” Arya loved him for recognizing that. Truth be told, if he had asked to come with her again she might truly have allowed it.  
  
She nodded in understanding.  
  
“Be safe m’lady.” He hadn’t called her that in ages. She smiled at him, sure he was referencing their old memories, and he smiled back at her. Breathing felt more strenuous than usual as she stepped towards him again for a final kiss. It was harder than she’d like to admit. She finally pulled her lips away from his and placed her hand over the one with which he cupped her face. He kissed her again, then nodded and stepped back from her. Arya squeezed his hand with her own before turning and walking up to the ship. She could not turn around to look at him again, lest she sprint down to be by his side and never leave.  
  
The ship was just as she had left it the day before; a crew prepared _Nymeria_ for her first voyage, uncoiling ropes and verifying rations. She unlocked her stateroom and set down Davos’ gift upon the maps spread across the table.  
  
Something glinted in the corner of her eye and she walked over to inspect it. Lying upon her bed was a beautiful weapon, a steel version of the multipurpose dragonglass weapon Gendry had made her in Winterfell.  
  
The two pieces still slid and twisted into one another seamlessly, but this was far more elaborate. One blade had a tiny golden stag embellished upon it, and the other had a dragonglass silhouette of a bull’s head. She smiled at his arrogance - he had really put his own markers on _her_ weapon - before gaping at the center. The middle of the double-sided spear was an exquisite wolf, its metal fur and head serving as a grip that was doubtless intended as an additional method of attack.  
  
There was a piece of parchment behind it. ' _I'd say I hope you don’t need this, but we both know you’ll find a reason to use it.'_ was scratched in penmanship barely better than that of a child. Arya felt a rush of every feeling she had experienced in the past few hours surge up into her chest.  
  
She ran up to the deck to try to catch Gendry and thank him, but he was no longer in sight.  
  
“Captain,” a gruff voice spoke beside her. It was the man she had contracted to run her crew. “We’ll be departing in a moment if you’re ready.”  
  
Arya scanned the docks one last time, then turned to the man and nodded. She would find what was West, and if the gods were very, very kind, she might one day return to Westeros to tell the tale.

**Author's Note:**

> When I watched the finale I told myself Gendry was just knocked out in a post-sex coma in their quarters of the ship, but I also wanted a story for if he wasn't. Thank the gods for fanfiction.


End file.
